Building Steam
by Aithilin
Summary: Dean, captain of the Airship Impala, captures Castiel of the Angels. Story proper. AU, pre-slash at the moment .
1. Chapter 1

_Title_: Building Steam  
_Author:_ Aithilin  
_Rating_: G - PG?  
_Genre_: Steampunk AU, pre-slash  
_Pairing:_ Dean/Castiel  
_Spoilers_: None  
_Warnings_: non-graphic violence, utter AU  
_Disclaimer_: I do not own the characters or series, and I am not making money from this.  
_Summary_: Dean, captain of the Airship Impala, captures Castiel of the Angels.

A Note on Terms: Some acronyms are of my own creation (despite not being that creative). "ATC" is Air Trader Company and mirrored by "STC," or Sea Trader Company. Political elaborations can be explained later if necessary.

----

They weren't in the habit of taking prisoners. If the ship they had tethered and raided was a slave ship, then they keel-hauled the crew and let the slaves take over-- sometimes even offered a friendly tow into the nearest port (for a portion of supplies and a bit of loot) if they had blown the sides out. They stayed away from the luxury liners, but hit the trade routes and raided a non-friendly port or two once in a while (ports were desperate measure, and not the best idea unless they were far, far from friendly skies).

Mostly, the crew of The Impala had it pretty good. Even if there was a high turn-over rate.

This time, though, the Winchester brothers were pretty sure that they had screwed up. Or a contact in port did. But no matter who said what, they were the ones setting fire to a three mast Air Trader Company ship. Someone had said that the target was a slavers' ship, and _someone_ had decided not to do the research for once.

"Look, I said I was sorry, alright?"

Sam Winchester's voice was muffled by the noise of the deck, and the mask that was strapped to his head. He was gripping the safety line as he followed the captain back below deck. It was easier to talk when the winds, sails, propellers, and fires were muffled by the actual body of the ship. The mask was just a safety issue-- it made it harder to communicate out on the narrow decks, but they made it possible to breathe in the winds and smoke. Even so, every crew member of the Impala practically ripped off the uncomfortable brass and copper shell of the mask the second they safely could.

Dean always said that Sam looked ridiculous standing out on deck trying to look tough. Looked even worse when the leather straps left red marks across his face because he strapped the mask on too tight. But he wasn't in the mood to tease the idiot just yet.

"Sorry? Oh, you're _sorry_?" Dean took a second to rub feeling back into his cheeks-- winds were freaking cold today. "First time in ages you don't research a target, and it turns out to be something that fucks us over? Good to know that you're freakin' _sorry_, Sammy."

"Bobby told us it was a slave ship, we never double-check whatever Bobby tells us."

"Yeah, we're gonna change that habit." Hanging his mask back in place ('always know where the mask, gun, and knife are' is what their father told them) with practiced care, Dean stomped to the nearest porthole to make sure the bodies of the Angel Garrison they had mostly slaughtered were being properly wrapped in the ATC ship's mainsail and dumped. The practice left the ship open for looting, at least, and the ATC didn't travel for cheap. "Make sure you get the papers from that ship. I want to know if they planned a trap like this."

"You're sending me back out?" Incredulous, Sam squeezed himself in front of his brother before they got to the hall that bottlenecked. "You barely even want me in the fights."

"Yeah, well this is research, Sammy. Get to it." Dean hated thinking of himself as short, but it was useful in situations like this where he had to duck under his brother's arm and give him an encouraging shove back towards the main deck. He ignored the grumble and kept to his path.

He loved the design of the Impala. It was impossible to take the crew by surprise on their own turf. The initial narrow hall from the only deck wide enough for boarding was easily defended, even if it was a point of pride to Dean that necessary defence had never needed to be tested. Galley and mess hall came first-- being the biggest rooms on the ship; then the sleeping quarters. There were only two private quarters on the vessel, one for Dean and one for Sam, and the rest of the crew either stuck it out where they could or laid claim to a bunk.

Despite the "ship" part of the term "airship," the monstrosities following trade winds in the sky had no real seafaring counterpart. Early ones were modelled after the rising trend of zeppelins, with decks that were closer to the old xebecs, but most of the deck was covered to deal safely with the altitudes it could reach. The Impala was an older model, but not that old-- a three layered body, long and flat, propellers mounted to each side and engines stoked by coal. An airbag was secured with far too much tarred rigging for just one bosun to manage-- Dean employed two, but larger ships usually staffed five or six. While each deck layer was filled with something, he was looking for the lowest one, usually set aside for the brig and cargo .

But it was the brig he was after.

When it was holding mutineers and hostages, Dean couldn't bring himself to care that it was the most vulnerable part of the ship during an attack. The Impala's older frame was perfect in every other respect. The separate cells were worth the extra cost to customize the ship, too.

He paused at the bottom of the stairs to make sure that the three sets of wings, uniforms, and masks had been put where he ordered. Fucking Angels had too much gear. It probably took the crew a good ten minutes to find those damned signature knives the bastards kept hidden. Sure he liked the design of them, but the dicks who used them had a nasty habit of getting killing blows in. And, he was going to run out of crew if they kept running into Angels.

He waved the expendable crew members off and surveyed the chained prisoners-- each one in identical white shirts, heavy black pants, and heavy boots. When in those masks and mechanical wings, not even Dean could tell male soldiers from the female ones. He wasn't even sure the commanding officers could.

"Didn't know the TC recruited girls." Well, it was common knowledge, but the red-head was already glaring at him. He might as well do some baiting while he was here. "Thought they had thing against women and violence."

"Thought pirates did too."

The response didn't come from the woman, which he hadn't really expected anyway. The red-head's glare turned to the cell across from hers and she hissed something. Dean followed the voice and the glare, amused to see a guy with the damned brightest blue eyes he has ever seen.

"Thought Angels weren't supposed to talk." The Winchester couldn't help but grin as those blue eyes narrowed. "You must be new, then."

When there was no response, Dean figured that they were back to the standard procedure. He could do standard.

"Welcome aboard the Impala, I'm your captain. " Dean smirked, not used to having three of the badass soldiers of the ATC in his little cells. It was empowering for a rebel to have the symbols of authority at his mercy. "If you need anything at all, don't ask unless you plan on giving up information first."

"You think you can hold us, boy?" The question came in baritone from the hulking man in the furthest cell. He looked like the sort to enjoy bashing someone's head it before tossing them overboard.

"Got a couple of iron locks saying that I can." Stepping aside to examine the confiscated Angel gear, he mentally appraised just how much a set of these wings could be worth. "And a whole lot of common sense telling me that it's safer in those cells then out and about with my crew. Why, I'm the nice one on ship, here."

Three glares levelled at him and he figured that he'd had enough. There was still clean-up to do, survivors to kill. Captain's quarters to raid. The fun part of his job.

He checked the uniform jackets stripped from the prisoners, knowing that anyone with an ounce of sense only put identifying patches on the inner lining-- and he was right. Thin strips of lettering were sewn into the lining, acting as markers in place of the old dog tags. Anything else could weaken, strip, or catch on something in the air-- and then even mechanical wings couldn't help.

"You three sit tight, Anna, Uriel, Castiel." Two out of three had weird names. Maybe it was a company thing. "We'll see about feeding you if we find something tolerable in your galley."

The Angels wouldn't be seeing food tonight. Or warmth, since he'd left two portholes open down there. Hopefully it would soften them up enough to get information. If it didn't, well, no one's walked the plank in a while. And three miles up, that made for some interesting splashes when they were over water.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Building Steam  
Author: Aithilin  
Rating: G - PG?  
Genre: Steampunk AU, pre-slash  
Pairing: Dean/Castiel  
Spoilers: None  
Warnings: non-graphic violence, utter AU  
Word Count: approx. 3000 this section  
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or series, and I am not making money from this.  
Summary: Dean, captain of the Airship Impala, captures Castiel of the Angels. Dean has plans to clear out the brig as they pass through the mountain back inland.

Author's Notes: Title taken from the Abney Park song of the same name.

* * *

It was two days before he went back to check on the prisoners himself. He knew that there had been "food" given to them (hard, stale bread really didn't constitute food to Dean), and that the portholes in the ship's belly had been left open to keep them miserable. At least, he knew that he'd be miserable if he was in that position, maybe Angels were used to being treated like crap. Really, for all anyone knew about the whole air policing business, the people who made up the Angel garrisons (far less scarier than the full regiments, when he actually thought about it) were born into it-- possible freaks of nature.

There still wasn't any information coming from them, which was why he was going to make the visit down himself now. All of the real work for him was done-- course charted, shifts decided, and the immediate future planned while the distant future plans consisted of "don't get caught". They had turned around to get back to the salvage yard and have a talk to Bobby about where he got his information. All he had left to do was visit the prisoners and decide how they were going to die.

It wasn't his favourite chore.

"How you all doing down here?" As far as Dean could tell, none of the Angels had spoken to any crew members, and possibly not even each other. So he wasn't expecting a response.

"It's a little drafty."

Evidently not expecting something made it more likely to happen. Interesting. It was the blue-eyed one who spoke, voice so dry that it could have been used to keep the fires going.

Smirking, Dean wandered over to his cell, figuring that he could ignore the other two if they were going to ignore him. "What do you want me to do about it?"

"You could close the windows, for one."

He was about to respond, offer something else to see if the guy could take some baiting. But the heavy baritone of the hulking figure in the farthest cell broke into his thoughts. It was enough of a distraction from the (apparently) talkative captive, that made Dean straighten properly and face the far less amusing speaker.

"What do you want, _pirate_?"

The last word was spat out as an insult, which earned the man a glare from blue eyes that Dean really did like. But there were a few things that he just had to get answers to, even if his first questions was a bit trivial:

"Out of curiosity, which one of you broke rank first here?"

There was no answer and Dean couldn't help the urge to roll his eyes. Goddamned Angels were such a pain to deal with. Next time, he'll get Sammy to do the work on this sort of thing. "Seriously, you guys shut up the minute I ask a question?"

Again, silence. At least, until the fun one (he was going to start hoping that the blue-eyed Angel didn't end up being too much trouble-- he was starting to like the guy a bit more than the other two) moved in his cell. Dean thought that it was safe to assume that the blue-eyed guy was the one who broke rank-- if only because he seemed to be more sociable than the other two (hell, the redheaded woman hadn't spoken a word to him). So, with this assumption that he wasn't going to get any responses from the other two, he directed his attention to the most talkative of the three. He was close to forming thoughts into speech when the Angel interrupted the process.

"What would you like from us?"

If Sam had been there, Dean was sure that the question (the odd wording) would have been the subject of some one-sided discussion later. Instead, Dean just took it at face value as part of the Angel's patterns.

"Well, since you ask, I have an offer to all three of you. "

"An offer?" The dark, hulking figure of the Angel with the temper lurched forward in the cell. Every sky- and sea-faring worker knew the offers of pirates-- cheap promises, if the hostage was lucky. "You think you can tempt us, boy?"

_Boy_? No one had called Dean that in years. Not since his father died. That Angel was definitely not getting the offer.

"Not you." Frankly, Dean was wondering if they should keel haul, hang, or plank the guy right now. "But for you," he looks directly at the guy with blue-eyes; "and you," the redhead, now; "I do have an offer."

Two pairs of eyes narrowed. He guessed it was suspicion, or confusion about the exclusion of the third. He could be satisfied with that-- it was enough to keep the two he did want around to be kept off balance.

"You know the drill, you can either join my crew, or I can think of a fun way to kill you."

"You really think-"

"Didn't make the offer to you, chuckles."

Dean smirks at the utterly aghast look he earned for that. Adding further insult, he turned his attention to the blue-eyed Angel now glaring at him outright. Aside from the glare, Dean had to wonder what sorts of thoughts were being turned over in the mind behind those eyes.

"You expect a betrayal?"

"In a sense." The easy attitude-- adopted after many years of practice-- was second nature to him now. It was something that he liked-- other than keeping people off guard, a slouch made it easier to reach for his pistol or knife while giving an attacker an unclear picture of just how he would move. "Eventually. More like a turn-coating."

"Exactly what is it that we get out of it?"

The woman's voice was strong, calm (he thought he read some curiosity there). "Other than your life?"

"Other than that."

"Place on my crew, out of the cells. We'll see how it goes."

"What do you want in exchange?"

"Anna, you're not seriously--"

The hulking man is stopped short (again-- for such a bulky man, it was odd to see him so easily cowed by a petite woman) by a raised hand from the redhead-- Anna, now that Dean knew. It was enough to draw a smirk from the captain and encouraged him to take a few bolder steps closer to the woman. He could admire the way she didn't back down. A challenge was a challenge, after all.

"I'm sure I could think up something for you to do, sweetheart." Maybe, but if she could silence the big guy, then he'd reconsider any plans to get the girl alone. Angels rewarded strength, after all. "But in the meantime, I need information."

"What kind?" This was from behind Dean, the blue-eyed man. Dean decided that he was going to need to sort out who was who first.

"Right now? I'd settle for knowing who you are."

"Castiel."

Well, that set the men apart from each other, now that he could set names to faces, and get Sammy started on researching who was honoured for what. "That works, then."

He pulls away from Anna's cell, knowing that they'd need to sort out what to do with who co-operated and how to kill who didn't. Once in port, Sam could pester whatever resources he had to find out whatever the two more co-operative (for the moment) Angels weren't saying. He knew that with the offer made, there was little else he could think to ask at the moment-- nothing that he expected to get any real responses from.

He was turning when the action was interrupted by Castiel's voice.

"Is that it, then?"

"For now."

"You're not going to let us go." It wasn't a question, and Dean had never pegged an Angel to be much of a pessimist. Unfathomably patriotic or loyal to whatever that "home" thing was on the ATC propaganda, but not the sort to actually boil things down into simple-if-depressing basics. Well, he never really thought that the Angels were the sort of people to have much independent thought, at all.

"Haven't decided yet," Dean offered a winning smile, playing up the image he loved of the confident pirate captain. "But I have some ideas."

-----

"So, what are you going to do?"

"I have no fucking idea."

"Well, it's going to take us a few days to get back to Bobby's." Sam leaned back, balanced on the edge of Dean's desk. He was the first one aware that they had a problem with keeping three Angels in the brig, and there was no way in hell that Bobby was going to be able to help. "It gives us time to get rid of them."

"Do we have to?"

"What?"

"I'm just asking." A shrug by way of explanation. Dean knew that it was a stupid question. "Anna seems okay, and that Castiel guy is actually interesting."

"Dean, we have to get rid of them. We have no idea how recognizable they are, or how much the ATC is actually going to look for them."

Dean knew this routine, too. If he didn't stop his brother now, then he was going to be treated to a thirty minute lecture on why Angels were dicks and that the authorities were to be avoided (as if Dean hadn't taught Sam everything he knew). "Dude, I know. I just don't want to kill those two, okay?"

"What about the third."

"Him, I want to toss overboard. He's a dick."

"Really?"

"Yes, really." There was a problem with tossing anyone overboard while over land: angry farmers. Despite the violence and the trade route targets, the Winchesters had always banked on their charisma when dealing for supplies they needed. It was hard to be charismatic when you're trying to convince a farmer that the body in the vegetable garden was an accident. "We're passing through the Rockies, right?"

"Yeah…" Recognition dawned on Sam; they hadn't done a mountain drop in ages. "Dude, come on. We can't."

"Why not?"

"Because there's a good chance he'll survive? And what about the other two? Are we just going to leave them there too?"

"Only the one."

"You really think that's going to work? He gets found, and we're screwed."

"So we drop him off on a glacier. He'll die of exposure in a couple of hours and we're home free."

Arms crossed, Sam practically glared at Dean. It was on principle-- his brother was looking far to smug with this slapped together plan. The had worked well as a team for years before their father died, and even better when they inherited the Impala. "We're going to need to restock on fuel as soon as we get to Bobby's. The mountains are going to strain the fires. And Daniel's going to hate you."

"Of course he will. He's the bosun, it's in the job description."

"I'll hate you if we crash."

"It's in your job description too, little brother." Something registered in Dean's mind and he looked aghast for a moment, as if Sam had just suggested some kind of taboo that could get them both hanged. "You think I'd crash the Impala?"

"You're going to drive us into a mountain."

"We've done it before." Back to grinning, Dean almost jumped to prepare the coffee when the water was ready. "Relax, Sammy. I know what I'm doing."

Reaching for an empty tin mug, Sam really shouldn't have been surprised when Dean snatched it out of his hand for that coveted first sampling of the coffee. Satisfied with the plan to dump one of the Angels off at the mountain crossing, they just needed to figure out what to do with the other two.

"Just need to trust me, Sammy."

-----

It was hard to surprise a crew of pirates used to seeing everything. But announcing the mountain drop had resulted in a spike in mood before the danger of actually getting close to the mountains sunk in. Then there were the standard suggestions for alternatives and "making it better" that Dean had to brush off.

While he wasn't directly opposed to keelhauling Uriel before cutting him lose on the mountain, which seemed too dangerous for the moment.

He didn't warn the Angels, but he was sure they had figured it out by the time the air cleared and the wind temperature dropped sharply. They definitely had it figured out by the time several of the expendable crew had dragged Uriel from his cell and towards the deck. There was scuffling, shouting, and punches being thrown until thick rope and iron rods were brought in to (mostly) subdue the man-- enough, at least, to have him out on deck.

Not really the deck proper, in any case. It was too cold to have the crew out in the winds. Instead, they had gathered close to the doors and had teams of crewmen designated to brave the cold to make sure the deed was done. It was less secure, and Dean knew the potential for betrayal was there. But then he could just lock the door and the mutineer was trapped outside (it wasn't the perfect plan, given the vulnerability of the airbag out there, and the propellers, but they had timed how long it took hypothermia to set in once).

There had been enough of a fuss below deck that Dean just ordered the crew to haul up whichever other Angel made a ruckus. There was barely a moment of surprise to see that Anna was the next one brought up to the deck, still fighting like a fury. He supposed there was some relief to know that it wasn't Castiel who was going to get tossed overboard-- he was starting to like the guy.

Still, they had planned to maroon one Angel, not two. Two meant that there could be definite survival, and that was too dangerous for Dean to just give them.

This moment was for the crew, though; and while he didn't like Uriel, he also didn't like the fervour for stranding people that most of his crew had. He supposed, in a way, it was better than the outright blood thirst found on other ships. Anna's wings and uniform had been brought up by order, making sure that the crew knew there was a different plan for her.

Even in the doorway, with most of the crew shielded from the wind, everyone was still wearing the mask and goggles worn out on deck. No one wanted to deal with thin air and freezing winds longer than they had to. But the masks-- covering half a person's face from nose to chin-- did nothing but muffle the cheer when Uriel was tossed out to the glacier.

Anna was a different matter, and for this, Dean took off his mask to properly speak to her. He almost wished he hadn't. The air was so cold that it burned, tickling the back of his throat as he tried to maintain his composure and standing as the ruthless captain (and not break down into a fit of gasping coughs that were just wholly undignified). Even inside, mostly shielded by the crew from the direct winds whipping through the door, Dean had to yell his part of the conversation to Anna.

"Sorry about this."

"Go to Hell."

If he had a dollar for every time he heard that, he'd safely give up pirating. "Probably."

They had checked the mask and uniform before bringing it up for Anna, securing the air filter, but removing the communications device (Sam was going to examine it later with Bobby to see how it worked and if it could be replicated). He offered it to Anna now.

"We're giving you your wings back. Pick a direction and fly."

Everything else was shoved into her arms as she accepted the mask. An Angel's mask was meant to cover the whole face with standard black and silver. They eye pieces seemed small, but Dean had tested it himself and knew that the up-down peripherals were perfectly fine-- and when flying, that's all that really mattered. He still had no idea how the wings actually worked, though. Supposing Castiel didn't impart any revelations on the matter to them, Sam could just tear through Uriel's set before they were sold for scrap metal to Bobby.

As soon as Anna's mask was on, she was shoved out the door to the dumping team.

Airships could move slowly, but not hover in place. So, by the time Anna was lowered (not so much tossed as tethered and then tossed-- cutting the tether when she was close enough to fall without breaking something) to the snow, the Impala was already at the next peak over. Duty done, Dean waved everyone back inside to their stations. Mountains had a great tailwind once you were heading inland, but fighting the cold had consumed most of their fuel. Never mind how pissed off the rigging team was going to be if they dropped to warmer air too fast and damaged the airbag.

But Dean could leave the work to Sam. He wanted to know why Castiel was the one they were keeping. Why the guy had just seemed to accept the loss of his comrades without nearly as much a fuss as what Anna had put up.

The brig seemed bigger without the other two Angels there. The pile of confiscated equipment was smaller and seemed less impressive-- wings crumpled and almost folded under the heavy black coat seemed far less interesting than they originally had. Yet Castiel, glaring at the door for good measure-- anticipating whomever was going to arrive next-- seemed just as defiant as before. It was interesting to Dean, to see that smaller figure still looking ready for a fight, despite the odd calm in the room. He knew that look. It was the same calculating look Sam got-- the planning, conniving, "sneaky bastard" look-- when he was plotting a raid or joke.

Casually, as if he hadn't just tossed to people overboard without giving them any real way to ensure their survival, Dean leaned against the cage that once held Anna. He looked over Cas-- critical, pulling his captain guise over his curiosity. There was almost a moment of surprise as he realized that Castiel was staring right back at him, like a challenge.

"So, we need to talk."


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Building Steam  
Author: Aithilin  
Rating: G - PG?  
Genre: Steampunk AU, pre-slash  
Pairing: Dean/Castiel  
Spoilers: None  
Warnings: non-graphic violence, utter AU  
Word Count: approx. 4,330 this section  
Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or series, and I am not making money from this.  
Summary: The Impala heads for safe port and supplies— Dean learns that Castiel is capable of carrying a conversation.  
Author's Notes: Title taken from the Abney Park song of the same name.

"You don't seem too upset that your friends are gone."

"I know you didn't kill them."

"Yeah? How do you know that?"

"Because you're a Winchester."

"Thought that made me more likely to kill."

Castiel stood like a soldier. It was something Dean had recognized early in their "meeting". Uriel had _lurked_, and Anna had this way of moving in and out of attention that probably made her very dangerous when not stuck in a cage. But Castiel was _there_, standing and solid, and looked like he would challenge Dean to prove that he wasn't corporeal.

Everyone heard stories of the Angels-- especially the pirates who were on the wrong end of any encounters-- they were traded in every tavern, saloon, and mechanic's workshop as easily and often as weapons. Stories were that no one attacked a vessel carrying a garrison of Angels, just like no one attacked a seafaring vessel carrying a garrison of Demons. It wasn't done. No one killed an Angel prisoner without fear of a whole mess of trouble.

Like the Demon troops that patrolled the waters, the Angels were nameless, faceless, uniform creatures that served and obeyed some unseen commander.

And here there was a named, formed, slightly smug Angel in Dean's brig.

"Where did you drop them?"

"You think I'm going to tell you?"

"Yes." At the incredulous look, Castiel offered his explanation: "It's not like I can do anything about it."

"Still not telling you, Cas." Honestly, Dean couldn't say where they had dropped the Angels. Wyoming, he knew for certain, and somewhere in the range facing inland. But the exact location was a mystery to him-- he had just focused on the tightest pass they could take through without eating through all the fuel. He was caught up in the musing until he realized that the Angel was looking at him with an odd expression caught between confusion and offense. "What?"

"My name is Castiel. _Not_ 'Cas'."

A pause as Dean realized that the slip actually annoyed Castiel. He couldn't have stopped the grin that crossed his lips if he tried. "Too bad. I like it."

"You're trying to annoy me."

"Thought you Angel types were supposed to be emotionless."

Blue eyes narrowed as Castiel weighed the possibility that he was being baited. Deciding that this conversation was entirely for Dean's personal amusement, Castiel changed the topic back to something that he had a better foothold with.

"There are ATC checkpoints all over these mountains. Uriel and Anna will be picked up by a passing vessel."

"Didn't see any checkpoints."

"Of course you wouldn't."

That was a touch troubling. Not that Dean was concerned that the two Angels were going to be picked up or somehow saved from exposure-- they were off the ship and that's where his caring stopped-- but if these points were hidden, then the Impala could easily be spotted and intercepted. There may be no hard proof linking the Impala to piracy and raids, but Dean knew how the Trade Commission viewed things-- getting caught was never a good thing.

"If I showed you a map, could you point out the checkpoints?"

"Yes. But I won't."

"You just said that you would."

"That I could."

A pause as Dean considered this apparent stubborn streak. "Can I bribe you?"

"No."

"Anything?"

"No."

"You suck." Another moment as Dean tried to find some loophole. Threats didn't work, he knew, and bribery didn't seem like the thing. But something had kept the Angel here-- he had been the first to consider making a deal, the first to actually respond to Dean. "There has to be something you want."

Rather than reply, the Angel offered a short gesture that resembled a shrug. It was a simple lift and fall and far from the more exaggerated gestures Dean was used to seeing. Goddamn Angel stoicism.

"Fine." The brig was cold, and vulnerable, and uncomfortable, and Dean knew that half the crew would be down there with taunts and jeers if he lifted the ban on actually visiting prisoners. While it seemed petty to just let the guy stew in his own self-righteousness, that was exactly what Dean was going to do. If Castiel was still going to be a dick later, then Dean would consider letting the crew down to torment him.

In the meantime, he had to sit down with a map and try to think like a damned Angel.

------

"Why are you asking me?" Sam frowned at the maps. He knew where he'd put checkpoints and guard towers, but that was because the most common routes through the mountains were linear and hard to turn around in. No one liked to cross mountains, but it was the easiest way to get inland from the Western coast. "We'll be through the pass by tomorrow anyway."

"Or we could be shot down by then." If Sam was frowning at the maps, Dean looked like he was ready to chuck them into the fire. "Just help me figure out where they might be."

"Can't you just ask the Angel?"

"He's a dick."

"So, bribe him."

"He's a righteous dick."

Dean didn't have to look up to know that the barely contained sigh accompanied a roll of Sam's eyes. He could even pretend not to hear the muttered insults to his very fine character, so long as Sam did something useful. He was spared pulling rank -- as both captain _and_ big brother-- when Sam pointed out three peaks that lined the most popular routes.

"Look, if I were trying to at least see who's coming through, I'd put them there. But they could just set up armed points at either end."

"You're really an optimist, Sammy."

"Shut up. I helped." Taking the map off the well-worn desk, Sam pinned the paper to the wall, right over the maps of routes along the West coast. "If we grab a trade wind, we can reach Bobby's in a couple of days. But we need to figure out what to do with your Angel."

"My Angel?"

"I don't want him, and the crew would kill him."

"He can stay in the brig until he softens up."

"And then what?"

Dean was not sulking. He was just sitting in his chair and finally considering the options of what to do with a captive Angel who refused to be bribed. "I don't know."

"How can we soften him up?"

"Can't we just leave him with Bobby?"

"Dean, we can't just dump this on Bobby." Dean was definitely not going to look up to see the expression that accompanied that tone. Sam thought he looked stern and simultaneously disappointed; Dean thought he looked like a pouting five-year-old, or constipated. "You have to deal with this."

"Fine." It was snapped, hurried, and entirely Dean trying to get out of a lecture. "Fine, Sam. I'll handle it."

"How?"

"How the hell should I know?"

"Dean--"

"Look," Dean was not going to get lectured by his little brother. That was just never going to happen. Ever; "I'll get him out of the brig. Warm him up. See what he actually wants, and then go from there. Okay? Happy?"

"You can't put him with the crew."

"You have enough room for another bed."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Your Angel, Dean."

"Dude, he's not sleeping here."

"There's no where else to put him."

"I'm the captain, I don't share a room. Set up that cot thing in your room."

"I don't actually have the room for it, Dean. You can fit it in here and still move around."

"But he could try to kill me."

"You'd rather he try to kill me?"

"A little, yeah."

Dean knew that he wasn't going to win this. Not for the long-term, anyway. If Sam caved in, then he'd have to worry about the Angel actually killing his little brother, and if that didn't happen, then they might get along. Dean did not want Sammy to get along with Castiel. They'd influence each other and be all sorts of pain-in-the-ass trouble with their logic and rationality. The only way Dean was going to get any peace of mind was if the Angel was under his watch.

"Fine. But if he kills me, I'm leaving the ship to Bobby, not you."

"You don't actually know how a mutiny works, do you?"

------

It was a few hours longer than he thought, before Dean returned to the brig to pose the situation to Castiel. They had to find the cot, set it up, hide the weapons, and then threaten the crew into submission. Castiel hadn't actually responded to the explanation, but he seemed to accept it. There was something Dean was starting to understand about the Angel-- small ways that broadcast mistrust or acceptance.

It was making Dean wonder if he was an idiot. He'd known the guy for a couple of days. Not nearly long enough to pick up on moods.

But he still marched Castiel up past the galley and crew-- making sure to point out that the crew would slaughter him if he wandered-- and into his personal cabin.

The cabin wasn't really that large. It was wedged in the back of the ship, nestled between the core engines that controlled the propellers-- the arrangement made it loud, but no more than the rush of winds against the windows and wood. Out of the whole ship, it was the only room with a carpet. The bed was the largest piece of furniture, followed by the well-used desk. A cot-- just canvas tightened over a metal frame-- was shoved into a corner, fastened into place with ropes that looked ready to snap anyway.

The only noticeable deviation from any normal ship's decorating was that everything was mismatched. Bits and pieces had been pulled together from various markets, jobs, gifts… Anywhere and everywhere Dean could find what he needed, he took it.

Cas thought it was apt. The ship itself seemed to be a collection of unusual things. From what he had seen, things either just came together for the Winchesters or they were slapped together-- and affixed to each other-- with whatever fastening was handy at the time. In terms of the crew, it seemed that money and promises of violence was enough to keep them together.

"You're going to be staying here." Dean pointed to the cot, hit tone brooking no argument about the matter. "Touch anything, and I tie you up. Any questions?"

"Why your cabin?"

"So I can keep an eye on you."

Dean never really did like to admit that he might have misjudged a situation. But he figured that if he kept the Angel until they got to Bobby's, then he could pass the issue off and go back to nice, simple pirating. Still, it felt appropriate to add;

"So long as you stay out of my way, we'll get along just fine."

------

They had taken a detour when getting to Bobby's. The advantage of the trade routes meant that there was almost no end to trade vessels. Coming out of the mountains meant that there were plenty of ambush points-- so long as Dean sacrificed fuel and comfort to stay higher than the usual trade paths. The vantage point of a higher altitude meant that they could see (and prepare) any lone trade vessels. They were large, slow, and often carried more than they should, making them slow, lumbering beasts of prey. If they were sanctioned by the Trade Commission, then they were armed with a garrison to protect whatever valuables they were carrying. If they weren't sanctioned… Well, then Dean tended to get excited about them.

Despite the close call with a Gatling Gun mounted on the smuggling ship, Dean was in a good mood. The crew was dividing up the loot out in the larger galley, but Dean was already on his way back to his cabin.

The detour had added a day to the trip to Bobby's, but it had given him some time. Dean wasn't sure if that was a good thing, yet, but it had let him learn a few new things.

For instance, he now knew that Castiel was entirely too serious. And, that the Angel was perfectly fine sneaking around to give advice and information without being upfront about it.

In the middle of the night, the markings Sam had doodled on the map of the Wyoming Range were circled, along with one in a deep valley that Dean assumed indicated another checkpoint that was probably in place for the ground trade routes. A list of trade vessels with alleged time and route changes (which Sam and Dean had argued about-- the list came from a contact of Bobby's. The same contact that had led them straight to an airship full of Angels.) was marked up, different times and routes marked in. On one or two of the new lines were numbers. It had taken a while for Dean to realize that the new numbers were the number of Angels travelling with official ATC ships.

Dean refused to acknowledge Castiel's help right now. But he was willing to warm up to the guy if he started talking.

On the way into his cabin, he bumped into Sam on the way out. "Dude! What the hell were you doing in my room?"

"Talking to Cas." The taller Winchester steadied his brother with a hand on a shoulder, an offer of balance before any loot was dropped.

"He's finally talking?"

"Dean, we've been talking to each other for days. He's a decent guy."

"You're just a suck up to authority."

"Dude, he's a prisoner."

"Still, you're a bitch. You're going to get us into trouble some day."

"Jerk." Sam had to press himself against the wall to let Dean through properly. "You should think about giving him his wings back."

"You're too trusting, Sammy." The real issue Dean had was that, while he appreciated the information suddenly appearing in his notes and maps, he suspected it was because Castiel was just bored. They had gone a couple of days without anything to really do-- this last raid was a fluke, and only really good for morale right now.

For all Dean knew, Castiel was a spy, or somehow signalling the Angels. Or any other number of paranoid fantasies that were probably impossible. Or possible, though Dean didn't think they were really very likely.

Still, his brother could go enjoy the looting part of the job-- the crew liked the pushover little brother more, anyway.

His next thought stopped cold. He could smell coffee, fresh coffee. Someone had touched his coffee.

It took a moment to realize that Castiel had actually prepared the drink for him. His claim of the spoils were set aside by the door for sorting later, and Dean focused his senses on the only warm drink on the ship. Most people dealt with the cold by getting drunk, or wearing too many layers-- the luxury of a warm drink or warm meal was practically the stuff that started mutinies.

Convinced that there were no poisons or drugs in the drink, Dean took a moment to let the steam warm chilled skin.

"Heard you've been talking to Sammy." It was the only acknowledgement he was going to spare at the moment.

"We've been talking."

"I'm surprised you talk. Normally you just sit in here and sulk."

"I was not aware being co-operative was considered sulking."

"Oh, it's sulking. Totally sulking." Apparently two days of mostly quiet co-operation between them was enough to establish some sort of comfort. Still, there was no way in hell Dean was sharing his coffee with the guy. "What were you up to in here? You know, other than 'talking'."

The response wasn't something that he had expected. For one, it was sarcastic, which wasn't something he had ever expected from the Angel if only because Castiel seemed oblivious to sarcasm when it came from any source. Then there was the fact that he hadn't expected a response at all. The Angel seemed to be comfortably ignoring Dean, sitting on the cot and looking through a book that Sam had brought in a day ago.

"I was thinking of ways to kill you in your sleep."

Dean was starting to wonder just how much of a bad influence Sam was. "Too bad. I was thinking of giving you your wings back, so long as you taught Sam how they work so we can replicate them."

"My wings are damaged. I would need to repair them."

"Can you teach Sam about them while you do the repairs?"

"Yes."

"Then we'll see about getting them back to you." Dean was going to chalk the generosity up to the really good coffee warming his hands and throat. "When we land."

Castiel frowned, a look Dean was getting used to (though he really didn't want to admit that he was getting used to anything about the strange guy who'd been all too quick to betray his comrades), as a thought occurred to him. Dean tended to ignore the look whenever possible, since he knew it meant that he was going to be asked a question if he acknowledged the expression. Apparently, just looking up from his coffee worked as acknowledgement.

"You have no idea what to do with me, do you?"

"I have ideas."

"Like?"

"I'm not telling you. It's privileged information."

"So, you don't know."

"Dude, I liked you better when you didn't talk."

Then there was the second look that Dean really hated on the Angel. It was smug, amused, and probably a little bit of "I told you so" mixed in for good measure. Dean always assumed that expression was some form of gloating. And, he was never going to admit to having learned the most common expressions that crossed Castiel's face-- it suggested familiarity, and they were not familiar. Castiel was one of those self-righteous, "rules are important" dicks that made Dean's line of work very hard. Still, there were a few things he needed answers for.

"Why were you so quick to offer information?"

"Because I wanted to."

There was a story there, Dean knew it. But the way Castiel turned back to the borrowed book meant that he was done with the whole talking thing today.

Dean swore that the guy had a daily quota for conversation. "Whatever, Cas."

"Don't call me that."

------

Each wing was a marvel of engineering.

Everything depended on how close the mechanics could mirror a bird-- with each canvas feather containing a lightweight frame melded to the overall skeleton. It moved the same way a bird's wing would, drawing parallel to the Angel's body with each downward stroke and flaring again to catch the air as it rose. A plethora of gears and wires mimicked muscle, each fragile piece having a different part to play in catching the air and propelling the Angel. If one part broke-- one gear, one cog, a single thread-thin wire-- then the wings were useless until repaired.

Cas knew how to repair them, replace and weld damaged piece and perform general maintenance to make them flight worthy. It was a misnomer that the wings actually allowed flight. They were for close distance, an occasional glide between ships or docks. While they flapped and propelled, the angle was always too odd for a human being to maintain.

No matter the technology, humans were simply incapable of flight.

Dean had never really got a good look at the wings before. In the air, in battle, they were to be avoided, a single stroke could break a man's neck with the force. They were hazards, and he knew that if the Angel wasn't trained properly, or borrowing some other set, death was a sure thing. Wings were tailored to their owners.

But now they were stretched out on the floor of Bobby's workshop. Twelve feet from tip to tip (the "primaries" as Castiel would explain to Sam later), with an extra two foot gap between for the body of the Angel.

He could see Castel work expert hands over the exposed skeleton of one wing, feigning disinterest. He knew how things worked, how the Impala worked. Down to the smallest screw. So he had assumed that if he saw the wings, the skeleton, the frame, exposed like this, he would just understand where everything went and how it all worked.

But as he looked at them now, at how Castiel pulled, tweaked, and reworked what looked like a copper muscle, Dean had to admit that he was lost.

"How can you do that?"

"Mm?"

"The wings, how do you know what goes where?"

"I'm trained to." Deft hands tugged a loose wire free and began to rethread it through a miniscule pulley system.

"They're freaky."

"Don't you know how your ship works?"

"That's different."

"Not really." Castiel hadn't turned his attention away from the delicate work.

Between the wings were the straps, leather wrapped around those thin wires to the box that rested on the Angel's chest in flight. Dean understood the basics of the box-thing. There needed to be a counter weight, some sort of balance to let Castiel get the right angle for leverage. That was simple. But the box had knobs, and two switches, and more wires.

One dial was twisted a fraction, and the wing jerked to life-- a shudder and sudden contraction at the wing folded at the gears worked their magic. Dean was impressed, but Castiel was not. Another twist and the wing spread out again, opened once more to Castiel's working hands. Minor adjustments and the test was repeated. It had started to move more naturally (if a wing constructed from metal and canvas could be called natural in any way), it lost the shudder and slowed to a more fluid pace.

It was all too far above Dean's head.

Stepping carefully around the work area, Dean headed to the door, knowing that Sam couldn't be too far. "Your wings are freaking me out. Explain all that stuff to Sammy."

"That an order?"

"If you don't follow it, the only canvas you get to cover that contraption with is going to be pink." Dean never thought he would see that look of sly amusement cross Castiel's features, and he wasn't entirely sure that he wanted to know just what had caused it. "Just behave. I'm getting Sam to make sure you don't destroy something."

Bobby's place was practically a haven for pirates. Aside from the promise of staying under the radar while in town, the man operated the best scrap heap this side of the continent. It was small, and usually took some digging to find the right parts, and the larger, more official salvage yards offered bulk deals for a backup supply. But Bobby's stuff was untraceable and durable. Not only had he found the parts needed for Castiel's wings, but he had managed to get the crew of the Impala working on modifying the bellows that kept warm air circulating through the ship from the fires (the same warm air that filled the monstrous air bag that offered the lift-- but it took far less to heat the ship).

But while the repairs and the new parts were useful, what Dean really wanted from Bobby was advice. Specifically, he wanted advice about the Angel (was he an ex-Angel yet? Dean wasn't sure if he could think about Castiel as part of the crew yet, even if he was helpful, sort of) and what to do with the guy.

"You'd better have a way to pay for these parts, boy."

"Sure, Bobby."

The primary workplace in the yard was outside, but that didn't stop Bobby from bringing the work inside. The man was presently hunched over a table covered in gears and wires-- the pile of scrap looked more like a couple of clocks had exploded rather than any sort of project Dean could recognize. The work didn't stop Bobby from looking up enough to level a glare at Dean. "I mean it."

"I know, I have a second set of wings for you, and one of those fancy silver knives the Angel's use."

A harrumph was the only response Dean knew he was going to get on that. But all the same, he pulled out the second seat at the small table and tried to ignore the way the chair scraped the floor and sent half a dozen junk parts skittering across the worn and scratched wood.

"Bobby, I need your help."

"Of course you do."

"What do I do with Castiel?"

"What's he good at?"

It took a moment for Dean to register the question and the implications. "He's not part of my crew."

"Looks like it to me, boy."

"He's not. He's an Angel."

"Don't be an idjit. Sam told me what the guy's been doing onboard your ship."

"So he's a little helpful…"

"And he hasn't run off yet. Or signalled the Trade Commission, when he had plenty of time."

"So he's stupid."

"Looks to me like he wants to help out."

"Bobby-"

"Don't you start. If you're worried, you go get this character squared through Ash's information. But the man looks like he wants to stick around, so if you don't want a turn-coat Angel helping you, then I'll take him off your hands and get him set up here making those radios the Commission's been using."

Dean frowned, not liking how this had turned out and not sure if he should trust Bobby's judgement on the subject. All the same, the suggestion to get Ash looking into the ATC records on the guy wouldn't really hurt.

"Fine. I'll see Ash tomorrow."

"You'll need the good whiskey to bribe him. Take the full one in the cabinet."

"How much is that going to cost me?"

"Get Castiel to make one of those radio things."


	4. Chapter 4

**Title:** Building Steam- Chapter Four  
**Author:** Aithilin  
**Rating:** G - PG?  
**Genre:** Steampunk AU, pre-slash  
**Pairing:** Dean/Castiel  
**Spoilers:** None  
**Warnings:** non-graphic violence, utter AU  
**Word Count:** approx. 4,330 this section  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or series, and I am not making money from this.  
**Summary:** Dean really just wants to get back to the sky.

* * *

Anna had already been taken for debriefing. Somewhere in the bowels of the ship, she would be giving their superiors a detailed image of the Winchesters and the way they seemed to run things. At least from the brief glimpse she received— which wasn't really indicative of anything other than that they weren't used to taking prisoners. In the meantime, Uriel fought with his self control to stave off the shivering long enough to appear dignified before Zachariah. But the frigid, thin air of a mountain peak with too little protection was a hard thing to force your body to forget. It was the air that seeped into bones, and he was becoming convinced that the small trembles under remembered cold would never fully leave him.

All the same, when the stocky form of Zachariah entered the sick bay— little more than a closet, really, now piled with wool blankets— the trembling stopped under the sheer force of Uriel's will. He snapped himself to attention and reviewed the man with the friendly smile coming in to hear what he has to say. Internal politics had set them at each other's throats— Uriel was poised to gain Zachariah's position should this whole scheme with the Winchesters fail.

"Report."

But for the moment, Zachariah was the one in command of the garrison.

"Castiel is in."

—

"C'mon, man," Dean knew that he was wheedling now; "you have to have something for me by now."

Three days in any one place was torture— the longest Dean had been grounded in months— and while he loved the Harvelle saloon, he was getting eager to head back to the sky. He liked the bar, and the odd sense of "home" that came with it, but he could never settle too long to enjoy it properly. He got Ash on the job because he hoped the man could get into places he couldn't. Usually this sort of thing was just getting shipping information and planned routes, but he had really been banking on this taking a day or two.

"I need to get back to the ship before the crew jumps, you know." It was added as an afterthought. The sort of incentive that he would have thought important if the roles were reversed. He really shouldn't have paid the ATC mechanic up front. Ellen may have had complete faith in Ash as a friend, mechanic, and the best customer this side of the trade winds, but Dean was less inclined to put his trust in a drunk willing to work freelance. Still, he liked the man as a friend, just not a reliable one.

The file— a bundle of papers copied and smuggled out of the few offices Ash had access to— landed with a less-than-thrilling _thud_ on the bar as Ash slid onto his usual stool. "Got everything I need right here."

"Great." Deft hands flipped through the paperwork, seeing nothing more than ship-out orders, a list of personnel, and a single page with a picture of Castiel on it. No name, just the picture and a list of numbers. "Dude, you didn't even get his name."

"They don't do names anymore, Dean. But I got his ID number."

"So?"

Sam had the habit of looking at Dean like he was an idiot. It was a familiar expression and one which Dean figured he could have only gotten used to after so many years of his little brother using it. He wasn't prepared for Ash— the slouching, drawling, low-energy Ash— to give him the same look. It was off-putting.

"Numbers are everything, here. I can get his whole file in a week or two."

"I don't have a week, Ash. The crew-"

"You can run that ship with four people and a cook."

"But I can't board other ships with four people and a cook." Dean got up, leaving the file and its pile of numbers on the bar. "Look, get what you can and send the information to Bobby."

He knew that Ash wasn't happy about the extra work, or the expectations about it, but Dean was getting too anxious to really worry about it now. He wanted to get back to his baby, and it was looking like half a day's drive in the old bucket of rust Bobby had loaned him. It kicked up dirt that shouldn't be on the rough road, and every three hours he'd have to go into the engine and clear that dust and grime out of the more important bits.

But it worked, and for the long drive back to Bobby's place, it gave him time to think.

They had to get into the sky as soon as possible, and he wasn't going to burden Bobby down with the wayward Angel. There was no question that Castiel was going to come up with the Impala— it was easier to hide someone on a moving target, and it was his problem. Never mind that he wanted to get back to the sky— and back to some sense of normalcy— before the whole crew jumped ship and joined up with Gordon Walker or some other local captain.

By the time the car shuddered to a stop at the Singer Salvage yard, Dean was covered in dust, grime, and had a plan. He made a beeline around the heaps of twisted wreckage that were Bobby's pet projects and livelihood, and searched out where Sam was apparently taking notes on Castiel's wings while the Angel worked on a replica radio system for Bobby.

"Call the crew in from town; we're leaving at first light."

—

The sky was simple. It was always a rush to get airborne— a mix of balances and goodbyes, figuring out just how much weight they were carrying and if that meant they spent a week or two heading inland before setting out for the coast— but Dean loved it. He knew where he stood when it came to flying. Either the wind was with him, or it wasn't.

It was simple.

This running around, trying to look through sealed records and bribing informants was definitely not something Dean liked to do. He liked it when things were easy and open. He knew the trade routes, he knew how his crew operated, and he knew exactly how to do his job. And while lift off was always a scramble, once he could see the sky around him, Dean felt that he could relax.

Relaxing at the moment— once the route had been plotted and the supplies locked down— meant that he could indulge in the first pot of coffee of the newest journey.

"What is this?"

Not trusting the Angel with mingling in the crew just yet, Dean had kept Cas close enough to keep an eye on him. He still wasn't sure what to make of the other man, but he had always been of the mind that everyone deserved a chance. Now, though…

"It's a book." Cas was interrupting his coffee time.

"I can see that." Sometime between lift off and when Dean had settled into his easy routine, Cas had taken up a spot at the desk. It's not like there was anything special, or secret, out on display. "I didn't think you were the type to keep a journal."

"It's not mine." Tin cup in hand, Dean finally dragged himself away from the comfort of his bed to see exactly what Cas was looking at. "My father wrote it all."

A few pages— muddled with blueprints, snippets of writing, and a handful of pictures or locations— were turned as Dean watched. He had to admit that Cas seemed to appreciate what he was seeing. The journal was a wealth of information on the design of most ships in the ATC fleet, little histories of current trade routes, and even bits and pieces of gossip. Years ago, when he first inherited the journal, Dean had spent hours trying to memorize the information but still had to refer to it for the small details. Sam used it for his strategies, and Dean liked to get ideas for the mechanics.

Sipping his coffee, Dean had to admit that at least Cas seemed appreciative of the information.

"It's very extensive."

"It's useful."

"Do you mind if I look through it?"

"Sammy usually needs it, if you want to help him out."

"I'm sure I could be some use."


End file.
